


Stripulation

by Regrettablewritings



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Weird Humor, especially since, sorta sexual implications, y'know stripper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 07:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regrettablewritings/pseuds/Regrettablewritings
Summary: Rafael insists that meeting your parents for the first time should be no problem, not if he’s upfront about his thoughts and intentions and using his skills as a lawyer to win the appeal. Unfortunately, something from way back is brought up by a “surprise witness.”





	Stripulation

Everyone made at least one bad decision in their lifetime. This was something that Rafael Barba, as an attorney, knew as an absolute guarantee. Granted, the poor choices he _usually_ dealt with on a regular basis were either truly heinous acts or ones that just made his job harder, all committed by other people against his warnings or better judgement. Neither of which impressed the attorney in the slightest: He prided himself on being a self-made man who stuck to his guns in the face of chaos, always keeping a leveled head to the point of blatant cockiness.

If not for the fact that you had been dating him (and could therefore assure that, yes, Carisi, hand on the Bible, Rafi is human), you would have perhaps fallen to the oft assumed notion that Rafael was relatively without a dramatically erroneous decision to his slate. This was not to say that he was _perfect_ by any means: Putting cold and calculated logic a step or two ahead of emotion, calling off dates to work on cases, and being so stubborn as to not want to lose even a personal argument were not traits of his that you favored.

But considering that he always made sure to right those wrongs, made you feel like a member of Manhattan royalty when he could, he was practically an errorless outlier compared to a majority of men living in New York.

And what does one do when they have been happily dating a comparatively errorless human being for nine months? Take them to meet your family. At least, that was what your parents had been trying to convince you to do for the longest while. They wanted to meet this “handsome, dazzling, well-dressed stranger” who swept their daughter off of her feet. You swore they wanted to meet this “creepy, lustful pervert who reached a gnarled old hand into their daughter’s safe, precious cradle.”

Unfortunately for you, Rafael sided with your parents: Family was important and if you intended on continuing to date, he’d have to meet them eventually. The longer he kept from meeting them and vice-versa, the more sour things could become; better to get that and their questions out of the way. And, in both parties’ opinions, spending the weekend at their place for a little get-together was a good start. You begrudgingly accepted the offer, forcing yourself to become prepared for the longest, most agonizingly awkward three-day weekend of your life to commence. All the while, Rafael persisted that no such preparations would be needed.

“You know I can be quite persuasive,” he insisted for the fourth time during the car ride to your parents’ home. You didn’t need to look up from your phone to know that he was sporting that damnable smirk of his. You envied his confidence: Rafael was more excited about this little get-together than _you_ were. Granted, he was used to being observed under the eyes of far greater gatherings. What were your parents compared to entire courtrooms and press mobs?

 _A lot_ , you insisted, and would continue to insist until your kin was within earshot.

“You’re persuading my parents that it’s okay that I’m dating someone whom they could’ve gone to college two or three years ahead of,” you scoffed.

“Ah, but did they go to _Harvard_? That’s usually something most folks would _kill_ for their daughter to get.” Self-assured, quick response. Typical Rafi.

“Yeah, well, there’s a huge chance that they’ll just wind up killing _you_ rather than anyone else.”

“Unless your family does the whole _Get Out_ thing but for Cubans, I have good reason to doubt your claims. You’re being paranoid; I can handle my own well enough to meet approval –”

“Rafi, my mother can practically _smell_ flaws and I swear my father can make one look into your eyes and find an entire list of things you didn’t even know about yourself!”

“And here I thought people only looked into my eyes because they were pretty,” Rafael jokingly offered. He was tempted to coo some more, taking the rare opportunity to be the more optimistic one between you two, but quickly opted out of it once he looked your way for a split second. The bemused look on your face held subtle hints that screamed, “I will make you swerve into the trees if you don’t take my word for it, Barba.” Rafael liked winning arguments, but he didn’t like winning enough to tempt that kind of outcome.

“Cariño,” he finally sighed, prompting a small huff from your end. You knew this was his attempt at buttering you up; an attempt that, unfortunately, worked quite well when he used that little pet name. “You have nothing to worry about. I promise. Worst case scenario –”

“Worst case scenario is they hate you, pluck at me, and constantly hint/outright state that we shouldn’t be together – and that’s just from the age difference alone!”

“Worst case scenario,” he tried again, tone becoming firm, “is that they don’t like me. And that’s that. I can’t do anything about my age, neither can you. But what I can do is win over a crowd; that’s literally my job. In fact, I’m well over prepared to do that, all things considered. I have nothing to hide, and anything and everything they may have gripes about? They’re out there on the table. And I’ll be sure to address every one they bring up; honesty is key in investigative situations. ¿Me entiendes?”

The delivery of that last sentence was done in the same tone he used when he wanted to assure that you were safe in his arms. That same tone he used whenever you had nightmares or felt incompetent or unable to keep a man of his age and caliber satisfied. You wanted to say it was unfair of him to use that tone on you in such a situation, where he felt he had the upper hand while you were down in the dumps. And yet, you couldn’t: Because you knew he meant it.

You told him you understood. But that didn’t stop the worries from knocking your heartbeat around.

+++++++++

You wanted to strangle him. Or smother him with kisses. Maybe both. Either way, it’d take that pleased “I told you so” look off of your boyfriend’s face as he continued to put his neatly folded casualwear into your bedroom dresser. You sat on your high school bed, cross-legged and attempting to glare through the confusion over what all had transpired in the last hour and a half. It was ridiculous to feel even the slightest bit upset that he had seemingly won over your parents – after all, that just meant they wouldn’t openly judge you for your decision to date a man nearly twenty years your senior. Hell, they actually might even love him! But, at the same time, it was inexplicably frustrating to see things go a little too smoothly:

You arrived and greeted Mom and Dad with a hug before stepping to the side to introduce Rafael Barba, “the ADA from New York who could solve just about any case.”

“Within reason,” he pointed out, offering a handshake that your father commented on as being fine and firm. Your parents didn’t notice your expression fall into bemusement for a split second: Since when the hell did Rafael Iachimo Barba express _modesty_ about his job!? Maybe he was already _Get Out_ ’d before he got here. 

If he had been, whomever had replaced Rafi was doing a splendid job thereon after: he placed a gentlemanly kiss on your mother’s hand, offered your father one of the highest quality bottles of scotch from his collection, and presented your mother with a box of her favorite pastries from the only bakery she would ever go to when in the city to visit you. He sat poised in the seat he’d been offered. Whenever you came home with a significant other in the past, this seat would serve as the Hot Seat. But to Rafael, it was just a regular old armchair, room temperature. He answered any and every question directed at him as if he’d practiced for it the way he made his witnesses practice their moments on the stand.

“So! What possessed you to date a gal like (Y/N)?”

“Her bewitching personality, so to speak. Though, if I had to be specific, it might have something to do with the analytical piece she wrote on _Company_ for fun.”

“Why should we trust that this is a healthy relationship, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I can assure you that I treat (Y/N) with utmost respect and admiration. She’s a wonderful woman and I’m quite lucky that she agreed to have me. However, if that isn’t assurance enough, I would suggest that you take (Y/N)’s own word for it; she can make her own decisions and if she determines that this relationship isn’t sustainable, then I would respect that.”

“Is this that Harvard education showing right now?”

“Well, no … But this relationship is just as much of (Y/N)’s as it is mine, and I want to do anything I can to gain some sort of approval. Family is important, and, seeing as I hope and pray that (Y/N) and I will be in it for the long run, I want to put my best foot forward. Hence the gift of Johnnie Walker Blue scotch.”

“… Johnnie Walker, you say?” 

It was almost maddening how much of his lawyer identity you were seeing in his boyfriend identity; not the accusatory, back-them-into-a-corner part of him, but the part that always knew exactly what to say to play the part and sway hearts. Only this time, for once, emotion was taking the lead instead of logic. And somewhere along the line, you swore you just plain went _mad_ : Soon, your dad was laughing and clapping him on the back and your mother was whispering jokes to you, saying that he was only as old as he was because he spent all his time waiting for you to finally date him.

The age thing, of course, was still slated to be a source of comedy amongst the two but aside from that, it appeared that Rafael had, indeed, passed exactly as he professed he would be able to. _What the hell!?_

“You sure seem ecstatic about how things went.” His sarcastic comment snapped you out of your reverie of trying to pinpoint where things went weird. You continued to weakly glare at him, suspicious as to what sort of witchcraft he must have used on your family. But, to his amusement, you could only muster a continence of bewilderment. 

“What _are_ you, Rafael Barba?” you murmured.

In turn, Rafael stopped his unpacking to give you that infamous smirk of his. “Your boyfriend, ADA of New York City, and, if things keep going smoothly, eventually your parents’ son-in-law.” You chose to ignore the bold statement, waddling to the edge of your bed on your knees, stopping just before him to take his face into your hands … and smoosh his cheeks.

“What hex hath thou cast upon my family, aging warlock?”

“You know I try hard for you,” Rafael responded, his typical bemusement seeping through.

“Indeed,” you agreed. And for the first time in probably the entire day, you returned a smile to him. “Thank you, Rafi,” you cooed, pressing a tender kiss on his lips. The appreciation was shared on both parts, as signified by Rafael wrapping his arms about your waist in an effort to pull you close.

The exchange of gratitude would have progressed, if not for your mother’s almost sixth sense ability to sense hormonal merriment in that moment.

“(Y/N)! Could you please help me set the table?” You normally loved your mother’s voice; but right now, it was shrill and a nuisance compared to the warm sanctity of the kiss. Better to soothe her request as soon as possible than to continue to hear it until you would then hear her coming to your room and then fussing about seeing Rafael on top of you in a lip-lock.

You groaned with displeasure upon separation. “Lemme go and help her.” As you scooted off the bed and made your way through the threshold, you made sure to give him one last loving glance. “Really, though: Thank you for pulling through, Rafael. It means a lot to me.”

“Don’t thank me for pulling through,” Rafael chortled. “There was nothing to worry about in the first place. Now go help your mother so you can come back to me.” A wink for emphasis. Needless to say, everyone was in a pretty good mood that evening, making you all the more giddy as you left him to his own devices.

++++++++

Between unpacking and glancing around your childhood room for anything he could taunt you with, Rafael was in a good place for once: He’d gotten time off from work for the first time in ages, your parents thought he was a delight, and all he needed to do now was focus on relaxing with you –

 _Speak of the Devil_ , he mused, hearing a set of footsteps stop at the door.

“That was fast,” he said, turning to look upon you. “You think there’s enough time to wash u –” He stopped. “You” weren’t you. Instead, the “you” he thought was there was a woman. An older woman. A woman about his age, wearing red lipstick, chunky gold earrings, and a v-neck red top that dipped down just enough to serve as a window to her ample cleavage. 

She was also unmistakably staring at Rafael’s ass. 

The man quickly swiveled, front facing her, eyes expressing alertness. The sudden movement only made the woman’s eyes pick up to his face, only to ooze back down on his body, stopping on his crotch just long enough to make him want to cross his legs. Instead, he turned to lawyer-mode: Not the one he’d used earlier to sway, but the one that expressed that he wasn’t going to take any kind of shit if he could help it.

“Can I help you?” he asked, voice hard and an eyebrow arched. The woman’s vision remained focused on his torso, biting the inside of her cheek as if in thought. Rafael rolled his eyes. “Ma’am,” he continued, enhancing the sternness in his tone. It was only then that the lady’s eyes found his face again. It was an irritably slow process, however, given that the journey included pitstops on his chest and mouth.

“You look familiar,” was all she offered. This only made the man blink rapidly with confusion. Did he know her? Rafael took to observing her with more intent than initially. Did he defend her at some point? It was possible … After all, it was unrealistic for him to recall every single person he had defended in his entire career. But surely you would have mentioned to him if he had defended someone you knew, right? Speaking of which, who _was_ she?

“Well,” Rafael offered a small smile as a gesture to coax the answers he wanted. “Not to brag, but I _have_ been on TV and in some papers for some of my cases. Perhaps that’s where you’ve –”

“No, no,” she interrupted, shaking her head. As she narrowed her eyes, Rafael could feel his smile shrink into a pursed position. And the urge to back up to put further distance between the two. “I swear I’ve seen you somewhere … Particularly, that ass.”

Rafael felt his head jerk back in surprise. “I beg your pardon!?”

The woman, however, remained unfazed, instead directing a finger at the attorney as if to pin him down with a single gesture.

“You … Didn’t you used to work at Nevada’s Cuban Boom Room?” And, as if her finger were a gun, a metaphorical bullet seemed to shoot right into Rafael’s gut. How else could he explain the sudden loss of breath, the feel of his organs clenching and falling, and his life flashing before his eyes? Specifically, the part of his life where he was attending Harvard, an expensive school even with all of the scholarships he was able to obtain?

In the eternity within which Rafael found himself wide-eyed and gaping like a fish, trying to grab the right responses, the lady was able to act fast. Nodding her head with increasing rapidness, she continued, “Yeah … Yeah, I’m positive of it! I think you were a, a … a lawyer-type deal or something. You gave my friend a … what did you call it? ‘Subpenis’ instead of subpoena?”

The words tumbled out of Rafael’s mouth, “I’m aFRAIDthatidontknowwhatyouretalkingabout!” But the woman didn’t seem to take it, continuing in her reverie down the memory hellscape.

“What was the name again? The ADA: Arousingly Delicious Attorney? Or were you Penis Wright, Ass Attorney?”

_Where the hell were these names coming from!?_

“I’m serious, you’ve got the wrong gu –”

“Wait!” she exclaimed, taking a step forward. Finally, Rafael took a step backward. “You’re Counselor Cutiepie, Attorney at Love!”

Oh, god. Rafael was no believer in magic or hexes or the like. He had Catholicism pounded into his bones, leaving no room to idealize witchcraft. Coupled with the fact that he was a rational man, he spared little time to humor the idea of spells or the like. And yet, with the delivery of that last sentence, it was as if this woman had casted a five-worded spell. One that revived memories he thought he had locked away and thrown into the depths of his subconscious. Only, apparently the depths weren’t deep enough: Her manicured fingers were able to reach in _just_ far enough to retrieve the box, open it, and reintroduce the Pandora’s Box of problems and embarrassment that were Rafael’s college years.

“I – no, I’m afraid that that’s – You have me mistaken – ” Rafael Barba was not one to stumble over his words. He did _not_ go to an Ivy League school to learn how to debate and win just so he could trip and fall on every sentence! _Especially_ in an exchange with a woman whom he wasn’t even interacting with in court! But it’s rather difficult to think and pose a proper argument when your head is being filled with the echoes of the past: The sound of obnoxious electric drumbeats set to electric guitar recordings, the screams and excitable “whoo-hoos” of tipsy, hormonal women trying to get over an ex or preparing to get married the next freaking day.

Needless to say, it was not the usual environment he had been educated to speak in, let alone the mindset he was taught to be in. The lady, on the other hand, appeared to be fine. More than fine, in fact, judging by her smirk, the hand she’d placed on her chest (the other one holding the other elbow), and the way her leering eyes appeared to be raking up and down his body in mad fervor. 

“I must say,” she said, her voice changing from accusatory to an attempt at seductive. She adjusted the arm under her breasts more, making sure that they popped further into acknowledgement. “You’ve gone from little lavishing lawyer to quite the law-abiding citizen, Counselor Cutiepie.” She chuckled as she watched the object of her desire tense up at the name. She glanced downward at his suitcase, still open and still in the process of being unpacked. “Still have a thing for suspenders, I see,” she commented.

“Crap” would have been too simple of a word to describe what sprinted through Rafael’s mind at that moment. But whatever word it was, it began to run laps as the woman began to saunter over to him, slowly and emphasizing every movement her hips made along the way. She only stopped when she left barely a foot between them.

“Oh my,” she breathed, “you have such _lovely_ eyes. I never would’ve been able to tell they were green of all things in that old VIP room; all the lights were dim and red! But I wonder … Do those hips still snap like they used to?”

Oh, _hell_ no! Petrified by the past or not, Rafael wasn’t going to stand for the very thing he worked against.

As if the feeling of anger warmed him up just enough, he began with a harsh, formed, “Ma’am, I would greatly appreciate it if –”

It was never spoken exactly what Rafael would have appreciated, as just as he would have affirmed his discomfort, you came bounding in like the godsend Rafael always knew you were.

“Dinner’s ready, Rafi, go wash up if you haven – oh!” You paused as you came upon the scene. At some point when Rafael had directed his attention to the sound of your voice, the object of his growing abhorrence had put some distance between them. Yet another mental request of Rafael’s that had been fulfilled. The third, however, still remained untouched.

That is, until you exclaimed, “Aunt Sophie? When did you get here?” Ah. That explained at least who the lady was. But it did little to settle the nerves tingling in Rafael’s stomach. He wasn’t even able to let his guard down as he watched the two of you share a hug.

“So I see you’ve met Rafael Barba,” he heard you say. But all he could focus on was the subtle leeriness dyeing your Aunt Sophie’s eyes.

“Rafael, you say? I’m afraid we didn’t have time to learn each other’s names; in fact, you came in just as I was complimenting him on his gracious assortment of suspenders. I was wondering where he acquired such tastes …” She poised her lips in a manner Rafael usually saw in women when they wanted to seem cute and far younger than what they had any nerve to act like.

Before he could feel any obligation to answer, you chuckled, “Well, Rafi’s always been a tasteful dresser, Aunty. In fact, that’s one of the things I love about him.”

Your aunt’s brows rose and her lips, still pursed, froze as an awkward smile upon hearing the pet name you favored. “ ‘Rafi’? Is it my understanding that this is the infamous, elusive boyfriend of yours you’ve tried to keep from the family then?”

“Yes,” Rafael responded, a little too eagerly. If he made it clear that he was yours, then surely Sophie would practice some decency and lay off. You remained oblivious to the underlying hostility, happily looping your arm with your beloved’s and topping it with a content nod of agreement.

“You’re gonna love him, he’s really sweet!” you insisted with newfound assurance.

It went under your radar but right into Rafael’s when Aunt Sophie nodded slowly and agreed she already did.

+++++++

You weren’t sure which was stranger: That Rafi, with his notorious appetite, seemed to only be pecking at his plate, or that Rafi, with his even more notorious mouth and previously established favor with your parents, was not saying much of anything. Well, nothing that wasn’t a sufficient yet short response to any questions or conversations posed by your parents. You eventually decided that him not gorging himself was the weird part.

Rafael, on the other hand, was aware of a different kind of weirdness: Your Aunt Sophie, sitting across from him, was taking way too many opportunities to stare at him and nudged his foot with her own way too often. But rather than stress himself, he decided to at least try and act as though everything was fine. Convince himself that she was only stretching her legs and her feet just _happened_ to come into contact with his as a result. That wasn’t farfetched, right? Decidedly not, as his decided method managed to work just enough to assure he got enough forkfuls of food. It was when her foot stretched a little too northwards, however, that the illusion broke. The bang of his knee against the underside of the table, coupled with the subsequent clatter of the plates, glasses, and silverware (as well as the barely cut-short expletive) rang loudly in the previously serene dining room. It caught everyone off guard, sans Aunt Sophie, whose feigning of shock was just convincing enough for no attention to be given to her at all.

“Are you alright, Rafael?” your mother worried, placing a worried, maternal hand on his shoulder.

Rather than outright say, “Your sister attempted to press her foot into my crotch,” he opted out, rasping an insistence that he was okay, “just tired from the drive up.” It was grounds enough for everyone to happily excuse him to retire for the evening. (Aunt Sophie might have been the most accepting of his retreat, placing purposeful concentration on Rafael’s bottom until he passed a point where her observation would be too obvious.) You excused yourself almost immediately, insisting that you, too, were tired, scurrying after your lover after wishing everyone a good night and thanking your mother for the meal.

He didn’t insist too hard that you return to dinner with your family (he was too tired to deal with so much), nor did he try hard to object to you closing your bedroom door. What he was against, however, was the subsequent line of questioning.

“So …” you began, settling yourself back on your bed, “you wanna tell me what just happened down there?” You were spared a green-eyed, reproachful glance from your pacing boyfriend.

He shook his head, not looking at you. He awkwardly scratched at the back of his neck when clearly nothing there was genuinely itching. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“May I remind you, Mr. Barba, that you are under oath.” You became the target of a rather quizzical look.

“Oath? What oath? The Law of (Y/N)?”

“Somewhat: The oath you took when you decided you wanted to date me: That you would be upfront and honest. Now come on, spit it out!”

“(Y/N), seriously, there’s nothing to say.”

“Objection! Withholding evidence,” you teased.

“(Y/N),” he began to warn.

“Oh, come _on_ , Rafi,” you whined, flopping onto your back. “It’s painfully obvious that something is wrong. So either you come clean, or … Or something!”

“Ooohhh, ‘something.’ Very threatening,” you heard him snark. You needn’t lift your head to know that he was poising his hands up to accompany his trademark sarcasm.

You huffed like an annoyed child, sitting back up. “Rafael,” you said. Your tone was serious again. But it also appeared to hold a tone he hardly ever heard you use: a genuine plea for understanding. It was hardly ever heard because there were hardly ever any instances where Rafael didn’t make an effort to understand you or sympathize. At this point, against his own best efforts, he was hooked. Sighing through his nose, he held back an eye roll and head lull, placing his green eyes on you instead.

“Rafael,” you repeated. “You’re not being fair. Okay? You keep saying there’s nothing to worry about with you but when there clearly is, you lie about it. You say things are good to spare the relationship from damage but then keep hidden things that could actually effect us. You won’t let me help!”

“It’s not something that could doom us,” he muttered, casting his eyes downward.

“Then prove it to me: Tell me what’s going on. What’s up with you!?” you demanded.

“It’s not – I can’t just –” Rafael exhaled with heavy exasperation, flopping his arms to his sides for emphasis. But you pressed on.

“It isn’t _what_ , Rafael?” you petition, narrowing your eyes.

“It’s …” His hand returned to the back of his neck to rub it. You noticed his eyes searching your room for refuge. “It’s not … what you’d think of me.”

“ _Lying_ and _keeping me out of the loop_ aren’t what I think of you, Rafael,” you answered back. “You say this age gap thing isn’t an issue but you keep treating me like a child. If I’m really a grown-ass woman whom you respect, then you’d better tell me what’s going on _now_.”

The threat of what might happen otherwise was too much for Rafael to bear, causing him to instinctively raise his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay, Cariño, just please calm down.” He lamented as he watched your fiery form attempt to relax. With your shoulders untensed, his hands returned back to his sides with a defeated flop. He turned his head toward the heavens as if asking for a way out. Alas, no such luck. Seeing no way out, Rafael returned his gaze upon your brow-furrowed form, your arms crossed in wait.

“Okay,” he exhaled defeatedly, “uh …” He pressed a hand to his forehead. How was he to do this? You waited patiently.

“Take your time, but not too much,” you insisted. What you got was a Rafael putting up a hand as if to suggest that he was currently trying to figure out the best string of words to present to you.

“So, your aunt. Sophie. Well … What we were talking about earlier wasn’t … about my suspenders. I mean, at one point, they _did_ come up, but …” At this point, Rafael knew he was stalling. He didn’t mean to, but he also didn’t want to rush this or even necessarily tell you his secret. At least, not _now_ during his first visit with your family. The mistake of his pacing came in to light, however, when he saw panic begin to reside in your features.

“Wait …” you whispered. “You two didn’t once …” Rafael watched in horror as you gestured your fingers in a suggestive manner.

“No! Nonono! Dios no lo quiera, my God!” That was worth an exhausted hand-rake through the hair. “I mean, it wasn’t _that_ , it was something …?” Was it like that? Or was it worse? Maybe it was better? But then, there were at least two things in common between what you thought and what had actually happened –

“Then what was it!?” you squeaked, unable to decode exactly what your boyfriend was insinuating.

Rafael hated to see you distressed. Especially if he was the cause of it and therefore the only one able to fix it. No more pussyfooting, no matter _how_ much he wanted to.

“You see, Cariño … In my …college days …” This was off to a bad start. And the painstaking way that he was delivering it was of no help. One more sigh to express how overwhelmed he was. “Hice un poco de baile por dinero.” Spanish, Rafael’s go-to when he wanted to say something around you and get away with it. He should’ve known better.

Your previously anxious state crumbled into confusion and reproachfulness. In spite of dating Rafael for as long as you have, nine months was still only so much in terms of learning Spanish. Especially enough to comprehend the rapid manner with which he spoke it. However, you _did_ catch two words that you understood.

“Okay, so I heard ‘little’ and ‘dance.’ You did a little dance in college? What, was it like a mating dance at Harvard?”

The groan of frustration signified him breaking further.

“No, Cariño. What I’m saying is … that I … didsomedancingincollegeformoney.”

“Oh,” was your immediate response. Rafael waiting for you to completely process the jumble of what he’d said. It didn’t hit at first, but … then he saw you mentally put the pieces together.

“… Dancing?” you inquired.

“Yes,” he mumbled.

“For money?” you pressed.

“Yes,” he responded, annoyance beginning to become more apparent.

“… Like, street-performer or –”

“For God’s sake, (Y/N), I stripped!” He didn’t say it loud enough for your family to be able to hear through the floor, but it was nevertheless startling to hear his voice jump from a mutter to an exclamation. But then the situation became startling for a whole other reason.

“Wait a minute,” a grin began to spread clumsily across your features. “Did you – You actually – You stripped!?”

“Would you please just – I don’t like to delve into it.” The affirmation present in his voice should have been enough, in Rafael’s opinion. But he knew better: Once you were intrigued by something, you could only become more curious about it.

“This is … This is incredible! I mean, not to make light of it but, like,” you ran a hand through your hair, your mind running a mile a minute. “You, a serious, big-time ADA, who eats at fancypants restaurants and orders high-end bourbon in two-grand suits … You used to shake it for the green!”

“Could you please keep it down? This is a very serious matter, (Y/N), and one that might put my job and social standing in jeopardy!” Rafael scolded, hands on hips with sincerity. To his frustration, the best of your ability could only have you accomplish biting down on your lip to stifle a giggle. Normally, Rafael quite enjoyed your laughter. But right now, nothing was normal: Your aunt recognized him from his stripping days, you aunt now wanted to relive those stripping days, and then he had to confess to you about said stripping days. Needless to say, the mood wasn’t light enough for your laughter to blow it all away.

“I-I’m sorry, I just –” A high-pitched wheeze slinked out of your throat as you attempted to breathe in enough air to smother the laugh that was threatening to explode right out of you. Rafael stood, forcing patience, as you tried to compose yourself.

“So what you’re saying is, you stripped,” you asked, your smile wobbly.

“Yes,” was the curt confirmation. He watched you inhale deeply to the point of suffocation. The giggle that almost was remained thwarted. For now.

“And my Aunt Sophie ties into this because …?” you pushed, wanting the juicy details.

Rafael rolled his eyes with exasperation, “Because she recognized me from those days, come on, (Y/N), you’re smarter than this.”

“Fair enough, but I just wanted confirmation.” You flashed a mischievous smile. Rafael didn’t return the expression. You pressed your fingertips together in thought. “Still … For her to remember something from so long ago … You must’ve really been something, right?” You watched as Rafael’s eye lids slide downward in sync with his lips forming a thin line. “No, I mean it! This is interesting to me, Rafi, I know it sounds like I’m making fun but it’s just … Wow. You, Mr. Keeps-His-Movies-In-Alphabetical-Order, used to strip. It’s surreal.”

He crossed his arms, “It paid some of the debt.”

“I have no doubts about that,” you insisted. Your smile gave way to a more thoughtful expression. “Really, when you think about it, plenty of students turn to that line of work. Though, usually you hear about it happening to females … It’s a little bizarre to hear about a guy doing it.”

“Because it’s not … classy work. For _anyone_ , at least, not by society’s standards,” was his gripe.

“I know … But … You did it anyway.”

“I needed the money –”

“I know! That’s what makes it so …” You stopped yourself short, clicking your tongue in thought. Should you say this? You were gonna say it: “I honestly am kinda proud of you for it, actually.” A look of befuddlement the likes of which you hadn’t quite seen on Rafael’s face evolved. His career had forced him to hear some striking things, usually ones of disturbance. But this? This was just …

“What?” he said quickly. You giggled at the way his brows folded.

“You heard me: I’m. Proud. Of you.” You topped it off with a smile reserved for such an emotion. But it didn’t confirm much of anything to the man standing in front of you. Your eyes rolled; looks like you were going to have to spell it out for the Harvard graduate. “Rafi: You wanted something and you went for it. And you made a lot of risks to get it. And you rose up from it into this big, successful, wonderful man that I have the pleasure of dating. You wanted to become a lawyer, so you got into a fucking _Ivy League_ school. 

“You didn’t necessarily have all the means to pay for it, even with financial aid, but you didn’t back down. You took on a job that not everyone would be willing to make; just to make sure that the dream could keep going. And you knew it was going to be risky as hell. But you did it anyway!” You inwardly gushed as you noticed the tips of his ears turn rosy. Even the cockiest man you ever had the delight and irritation of meeting couldn’t defend himself against your flattery. “And look at you now: You’re an ADA – and a damn good one at that. You wear fancy suits, you go to all these cool events and plays, you get to help people (though some might say you piss them off in the process). You have great companions, you worked your way up with the support of a mami who loves you . . . Plus …” You placed your hands under your chin as if to create half a frame. “… You have me: A woman who loves you and is impressed by you!

“So don’t be ashamed, Rafi. At least, not around me. It’s okay to not want anyone to know about this, but you can trust me when I say that it’s alright. There’s no judgment here. ¿Me entiendes?” Your use of Spanish earned you the smile you’d been hoping to see all evening. It was warm and glorious, made even better by the fact that the cheeks supporting it were pinkening with blush.

“… You do realize, though, that if your Aunt Sophie mentions anything about this to your parents, the dynamic may change, right?” he pointed out.

Your smile froze but, not to be deterred, said, “I’ll have a talk with her before we turn in. If I set the ground rules, I’m sure she’ll refrain from letting the cat out of the bag. Or, in this case,” you smirked, “the dick out of the thong.”

“Oh, for God’s sa – Fine. Whatever, I’m not humoring this. And while you’re at it, do you mind telling her to please stop intruding on my personal space?”

“Will fucking do; if anyone’s getting any private dances nowadays, it’s gonna be _me_.”

“(Y/N)!”

**Epilogue:**

You closed your bedroom door for the final time that night. Your talk with Aunt Sophie had gone down a lot better than you’d expected. You could only hope that the rest of the three-day weekend would go smoothly without another incident. You and Rafael didn’t get as much time to relax together as you wanted to, so it was ideal for you to just enjoy your time away from the city with the man you loved, leaving behind any and everything that would haunt either of you. Speaking of which . . .

You couldn’t help but smirk as you watched the man of the hour towel-dry his hair. When you’d gone to talk with your aunt about your requests, he’d taken the initiative to shower and change into his college sweats. It was both unusual and endearing to see your man so dressed down. In fact, it was also somewhat tempting. Rafael quirked an eyebrow when you all but jumped into your bed before assuming a position on your side, one leg laid out will the other folded to create a sexy image. Well, as sexy as one could be in their own old college t-shirt and sleeping shorts. But it was the impish smile that played on your lips that cued Rafael in on what you were probably insinuating.

“Mi alma,” he warned, an equally taunting smile present on his own lips, “we’re not doing _that_. We’re at your parents’ place, we’d be lucky if we even get more than one kiss in.” He was almost tempted to go back on that word by just a bit when he saw you give him an extra special pout. Almost.

“Pero Papi,” you whined, “I was really hoping you’d show me some of your moves.” Right on cue, Rafael heard it: The Clash’s cover of “I Fought the Law.” It was coming from your phone, so the sound wasn’t top or even middle notch, but it was hanging in the room just loud enough to disturb only you and him. Mostly him. Goddammit.

“Really, (Y/N)?” Rafael exasperated. His naughty smile might have evaporated, but your stayed. In fact, it only grew from then on.

You teasingly waved your phone as you pulled it from its hiding place beneath your breast. “‘California Sex Lawyer’ would’ve been too obvious. Now dance for me, Rafi; I wanna see the moves that made Aunt Sophie wild for you even years after the fact!”

Rafael groaned, “This song isn’t even about lawyers!”

“It’s a bunch of women watching a Papi Chulo shake it down; do you _really_ think anyone’s thinking about the song content?” you waggled your brows in a suggestive manner. Rafael had to physically fight to avoid laughing and further encouraging you. You sat up and turned to the nightstand. “Look – I’ll even pay you!” You retrieved a fist full of pocket change from the little ceramic catch bowl you kept on the end table. When you turned back to your “private dancer”, you were only greeted with an small sneer, raised brows, and eyes that could only express a lack of amusement.

“Quarters and pennies? Princesa, I will have you know that during my time at the Cuban Boom Room, I was worth at least $20 a minute,” he boasted.

You hummed with faux-consideration. “’S’at so, Mr. Barba?”

“Yep; Counselor Cutiepie was _quite_ the spectacle of the joint. He laid down quite a few laws, amongst other things …” You could see the beginnings of a taunting grin working into his handsome features. Just a bit more provoking …

“Well, Counselor Cutiepie, I’m afraid I require evidence before I can reach a verdict,” you said, voice becoming sultry as you licked your lips. “How about you put your money where that infamous mouth of yours is and try to win your case?”

Well, Rafael _did_ love winning …


End file.
